


stuck in colder weather

by redbelles



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Emotional Sex, F/M, Power Dynamics, Professor Ren and Overworked Grad Student/Barista Rey, Snowed In, Tropes, author is a parody of herself, even though there is no student/teacher kink, i'm just a ridiculous idiot who has no idea what the hell i'm doing, like at all, putting that tag out there just in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 09:36:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15992522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbelles/pseuds/redbelles
Summary: “Rey?” He sounds a little bit incredulous. “You’re not thinking of biking in this, are you?”Of course. Of course this is her first interaction with Ren outside of the shop. This is fine.“Yeah,” she says, trying not to let her teeth chatter. “It’s not that long a ride. Won’t be fun, but it’s no big deal.”





	stuck in colder weather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reygrets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reygrets/gifts).



The day goes off the rails around three in the afternoon.

Jessika calls in sick, out with some horrible strain of the flu. It’s short notice; Rey can’t find anyone to cover, so she handles the rush of grumpy, restless undergrads on her own, pulling shots as fast as she can and scrambling over to the till whenever the line starts to look unreasonably long. It’s late November, and the sky is the deep, bruised gray it so often is in winter. Sunlight streams weakly through the huge windows at the rear of the shop, painting everything in watery tones. The view is beautiful. Rey ignores it. Experience has taught her that if she looks up for more than half a second to reassure some huffy engineering major that their coffee is on the way, she’ll burn the shit out of her fingers. Nearly two years into this gig and the steam wand remains her enemy.

There are other perks to working at the only decent coffee shop on campus: excellent gossip, easy access to her grad advisors, lots and lots of free coffee. Hordes of under-caffeinated undergrads? Not so much. By the time she’s dealt with the rush, it’s just past four, the sunlight is almost gone, and she’s bone tired. She should probably take advantage of the lull and get ahead on what she needs to do to close, but she’s been on her feet since the opening shift at six. Thursdays are supposed to be her easy days— if Jess were here, Rey would be getting ready to clock out. She’ll regret this when she inevitably gets slammed again—probably just before close—but she leaves the bleach spray and the broom where they are and lets herself take a quick break.

She’s leaning against the back counter, humming along to some quiet song about snowfall and secrets, when he walks in.

Professor Ren is— like someone stole a Byronic hero straight out of the 1800s, gave him a pair of fancy hipster glasses and an advanced history degree, and released him on campus to terrorize the local undergrads. His students bitch about him endlessly—moody, taciturn, downright vicious with a red pen—but he’s never been anything but polite to her. He comes in on Tuesdays and Thursdays like clockwork, twenty minutes before some massive history lecture starts, and orders a shot in the dark. No cream, no sugar, though sometimes she catches him eyeing the row of syrups behind her with something like wistfulness. He doesn’t do casual conversation, but every once in a while he laughs at her jokes, cracks a quiet smile when she has his drink waiting for him on the counter when he comes in. 

The rush threw her off her game though. The sight of Ren in a thick cable knit sweater—more casual than she’s ever seen him—doesn’t help the situation. It strains a little bit at the shoulders, highlighting how broad he is, hinting at muscles she really has no business thinking about. At least, not when she’s anywhere near a steam wand.

“Hey,” she says, “sorry. I’ll have your usual ready in just a minute.”

“It’s alright,” he says. “I don’t mind waiting.”

He drops a handful of bills on the counter near the register and steps to the side, even though there’s no one behind him in line. Rey has to will herself not to look up at him, because a) steam wand and b) don’t be weird. She’s so focused on pulling the shots—he goes for three, which is just this side of crazy—that she nearly jumps when he asks her a question.

“Just you today?”

 “Yeah,” she says. “Jess came down with the flu, so it’s just me.”

That’s apparently the extent of his small talk capabilities for the day. He waits in silence while she finishes his drink, but he flashes her that slight smile as he heads for the door.

She gathers up the cash and definitely does not stare at him as he goes. There’s more than the drink cost; he always remembers to tip. That alone would be enough to make him a favorite customer, but it’s more than that. They’ve exchanged just a handful of words since he first walked in, a few months after her first shift, but talkative or not, there’s something strangely magnetic about him.

Rey’s spent a good chunk of her time as a barista fending off awkward crushes and dodging customers who don’t seem to realize that it’s wildly inappropriate to hit on someone who can’t _walk away_ , but. Look. He fills out a suit—a suit! to teach undergrads!—like nobody else she’s ever seen. He’s absurdly tall, and his hair is always slightly messy, like he’s been running his hands through it. And reputation notwithstanding, he seems like a decent guy. He’s quiet, he tips, and he never, ever hits on anyone in the barista crew. Not even Bazine, who spent two semesters practically drooling all over him on the Tuesday-Thursday shift; thank god her class schedule finally put an end to that.  

If Rey’s honest with herself, that’s why she hasn’t really tried to squash the fluttery, butterfly-nervous feeling she gets every time Ren comes in. He’s pretty safe to crush on, all things considered.

The song changes to something loud and banjo-heavy, and Rey shakes herself out of her reverie. _I really should take advantage of the lull,_ she thinks, just as a gaggle of lacrosse players come in through the rear door that overlooks the west quad, their cheeks bright red with cold. A burst of freezing air follows them inside, making Rey shiver before she’s swept up in the beginnings of another rush. The lacrosse girls, a business class that lets out early, a group of professors heading to some sort of departmental meeting, and another burn on her knuckle— it’s just that kind of day.

She survives the rush, manages to get most of the cleaning done during another lull, and then makes one last drink for a wild-eyed student who hollers something about being late for a test, Americano sloshing dangerously they hurry out. It’s full dark now, and the light above the back door burned out three days ago. Maintenance will get around to it eventually, but for now Rey applauds herself for remembering to use the bike rack out front instead of propping her old cruiser by the back door like she usually does. She just has to take the garbage out, then she can lock up and _finally_ head home. The evening’s looking up.

She regrets the optimism as soon as she steps outside, trash bags in hand, and almost loses her footing. Shrieking, she drops the bags and makes a wild grab for the door handle. She just manages to catch herself: wipeout averted. Heart pounding, nothing bruised but her dignity, she squints into the darkness, trying to figure out what just happened. Freezing rain is the answer, buckets of sleet coming down under the cover of an early November sunset and a burned out light.

_Well shit._

It’s a short hike to the dumpsters, but her sweatshirt is soaked through by the time she makes it back to the shop. The bike ride home is going to absolutely suck, but it’s not like she has any other options. Rose is equally broke and carless. Finn would pick her up in a heartbeat, but Poe’s car is in the shop. At some point the two of them will realize they’re dating, but for now it’s an exercise in hilarity. Constant source of amusement or no, it doesn’t solve her problem; she still has to ride home in this mess.

Trying not to shiver as she locks up, she trudges out through the student lounge and heads for the double doors at the front of the building. The coffee shop occupies the back of the university’s business center, a way to showcase a successful alum’s franchise and wring a few more dollars out of students at the same time. The lobby isn’t particularly warm on the best of days, given the fancy tiled floor and the high ceilings, but with the sleet still coming down outside, it’s downright frigid. She lingers for a moment in the meager warmth of the building before she takes a breath and heads outside.

She’s struggling with her bike lock when she sees him, a lone figure moving carefully over the icy paving stones, headed for the parking lot. At first he’s just a dark blot against the driving rain—thicker now, almost snow—and then the shape resolves into a familiar figure: Professor Ren.

He’s got a greatcoat on over his sweater, briefcase tucked under one arm, hands jammed in his pockets. It’s impossible to stay warm in weather like this, but he still manages to look a damn sight less frozen than she is. Her sweatshirt was fine for what she thought would be an early day, but sleet is above its pay grade. The thought summons a shiver, and she loses her grip on the lock. It clangs into the frame of the bike, loud and metallic over the low sound of slush hitting the ground, and Ren stops. God, she can _feel_ the judgment as he takes in the situation. She probably looks like a half-drowned idiot, and she waits for him to— to roll his eyes and move on, let her be embarrassed and ridiculous in peace. Instead, he turns in her direction, still moving carefully over the slick walkway.

“Rey?” He sounds a little bit incredulous. “You’re not thinking of biking in this, are you?”

Of course. Of course this is her first interaction with Ren outside of the shop. This is fine.

“Yeah,” she says, trying not to let her teeth chatter. “It’s not that long a ride. Won’t be fun, but it’s no big deal.”

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at her, a look that takes in her too-thin sweatshirt and the way her hands are still fumbling with the bike lock. Okay, maybe she’s starting to see why his students complain. She feels like she’s trying to justify why she just failed a pop quiz.

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry— I did the reading, I swear!_

“Forgive me if this is too forward,” he starts. The disbelief is gone, replaced by a very formal sort of hesitance. “But if you’re comfortable with it, I could give you a ride home. I don’t think it’s wise to try and bike in this weather.”

For a moment she just stands there, gobsmacked. Ren waits one beat, then two, and then the most vivid blush she’s ever seen starts to streak across his cheekbones, disappearing under the mess of his hair. She’d bet a whole day’s worth of tips that his ears are the same bright red.

“I apologize,” he says stiffly, almost pained. The awkwardness wakes up her up, and Rey gets her head out of her ass long enough to blurt out the first word that comes to mind.

“No! I mean— yes. I would really appreciate a ride. If you’re sure.”

Some of the tense stiffness fades; he looks up at the sky, then back to her. She’s shivering. “It’s no trouble,” he says. “I’m afraid you’re about to turn blue.”

The inherent stupidity of getting into a car with a man she barely knows wrestles with the way her fingers are turning numb. The numbness wins.

It’s a relief to let go of the bike lock. She’d worry about looking ridiculous, but that’s definitely a lost cause; she gives up and crosses her arms, jamming her hands into her armpits to try and coax some warmth back into them. He steps closer, reaching for something. For a fleeting moment she thinks he’s about to hug her. Instead, there’s another metallic clang, and then he’s handing her the bike lock, open now, because of course it is.

“Here,” he says. “Why don’t you take this inside and I’ll bring the car around.”

“Inside?” she echoes back.

“You don’t want it to rust.”

It’s a piece of crap second hand bike she’s had since high school. She bought it for fifty bucks at a thrift store. She can’t tell if he’s giving her shit or not.

“Okay.” Either way, going inside means heat.

The cruiser leaves slushy tracks across the lobby, down the stairs and across the carpet of the student lounge. She props it up inside the store, where more slush keeps dripping, forming little puddles of water all across the floor she just finished sweeping. Whatever. She’ll take care of it later.

There’s a sleek black car idling in front of the building. It’s obviously Ren’s, but where the hell did he get the money for such an expensive ride? He’s in academia, for fuck’s sake. She stops worrying about that the moment she opens the door. A blast of heat greets her, and when she settles into the passenger seat, the leather is toasty enough that she can feel it even through the dampness of her sweatshirt.

Lit by the glow of the dash, Ren’s face is all shadow. He’s not a conventionally handsome man, but there’s something arresting about him; stark cheekbones, sensitive mouth. Stupidly long eyelashes.

“I turned the seat heat on for you.” His voice is quiet, some of the stiffness back. Worried he overstepped? “I hope that’s alright. The control is on the console if you want to adjust it.”

“It’s nice,” she says inanely. “Thank you.”

He hums in response, focused on the road as he navigates them away from the business center and through the parking lot. She’s so focused on thawing out that she doesn’t realize they’ve come to a stop until he says her name.

“Sorry, what?”

He’s waiting to pull out onto the main road near campus, but—

“Where to?”

Yeah. That. She’s still freezing cold, but she manages a flaming red blush with no problems whatsoever.

“Um, I live out by Niima?”

He turns, giving her another one of those incredulous looks. This one is more impressive than the last— dramatic lighting, close proximity, the decidedly non-work setting. It’s a lot. “That’s nearly ten miles out.”

“Only seven,” she says defensively. She can’t afford a car, and it’s a good job; it’s the only way she can make ends meet and still manage to chip away at her degree. So what if it’s a long ride?

“Seven miles, in sleet, in the dark.”

“Look, if you’re going to sit here and judge me you might as well let me out right now. I’d rather bike.”

His fingers tighten on the steering wheel, leather creaking. “That’s not what I meant at all.” There’s an entirely new tone to his voice: tight, frustrated. He lets out a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m...impressed by your commitment. That’s a long commute with a hard job waiting at the end of it.”

_Huh,_ she thinks. _That was actually a halfway decent apology._ She studies the street ahead for a moment, letting the compliment sink in; it warms her more than it should. This is what she gets for letting the butterflies have free rein.

“Slinging coffee isn’t that bad,” she says, trying to ease the tension. “You meet some interesting people.”

“Oh?”

“Yep. Mysterious professors who order crazy drinks and never give you their name.”

“Mysterious?” He snorts. “I’m sure my students complain ad nauseam.”

“Well sure, but ‘Professor Ren’ isn’t really a _name,_ you know? It’s like a work title.”

“Ben,” he says.

“Oh shit, I’ve been saying your name wrong?”

“No. My name is Ben.”

“...Ben Ren? What did your parents have against you?”

She says the last bit as a joke, but it misses the mark. Or hits it square on, rather, judging by the way he flinches.

“I took Ren as a pseudonym for academic work. I suppose it stuck.”

It doesn’t take an advanced degree—which is good, because Rey doesn’t have one of those yet—to see that this isn’t a welcome topic. She lets it drop.

They ride in silence for a while after that. Ren watches the road, and Rey watches the sleet. It’s coming down in torrents now, and it’s difficult to see too far ahead; the hill down to Niima is going to be a deathtrap by the time they get there. She’s trying to figure out if there’s any place else she could crash for the night, just so he doesn’t have to attempt the hill and inevitably wreck his fancy car when he abruptly slams on the brakes, tires screaming as they lock up on the ice.

For an endless moment, all she can see is a smear of red light as a car comes out of nowhere, streaking in front of them and nearly clipping the driver side bumper. It fishtails across their lane and then back into the one it came from, each slide worse than the last as the driver fights to regain control.

_Overcorrecting,_ Rey’s brain tells her uselessly. Ren’s car is still skidding, anti-lock brakes doing less than nothing. She tears her eyes away from the other car, trying to shove down all her panic. He’s doing a better job than she is. She watches as he keeps a careful grip on the wheel and starts to ease off the brakes, pumping them lightly as the other car gets further and further ahead. It takes a moment, but eventually they regain enough traction that he can steer them over toward the shoulder. The other car is gone, brake lights swallowed up by darkness, red glow lost in the sleet somewhere ahead of them. She hopes whoever’s in it is okay.

The car jolts as they roll across the rumble strip. Ben waits until they come to a dead stop, then looks over at her.

“Niima’s at the bottom of a hill, correct?”

“Yep.”

“Well then,” he says, letting out a breath. It’s just the slightest bit unsteady, the first sign of nerves she’s seen since the whole ordeal started. “I don’t think Niima is an option, not with the roads like this. Is there anywhere else you can stay until the weather clears?”

There isn’t, not really. It stings to admit, but it’s the truth. She’s got a tight-knit circle of friends, but it’s a small one. Most of them live in Niima, or even further away, out near the air base. Jessika is a work friend, but not someone she knows well enough to impose on.

“I think Maz’s place is probably still open. You can just drop me off there, and I’ll figure something out.” There. She admitted she doesn’t have any options without bursting into flames or turning into a frog or something equally horrible. She’ll thank Ren for the ride and then hide in the back whenever he comes in. He’s always stupidly punctual, so it won’t even be that hard. Jess or Kay or whoever’s on shift with her can deal with him. Everything is fine.

Everything is fine until he opens his mouth.

“Forgive me,” he says, and _shit,_ this isn’t going anywhere good, “but I cannot in good conscience just dump you at a dive bar and expect you to hole up there until the storm passes.” He makes ‘dive bar’ sound like ‘something nasty I need to scrape off my three hundred dollar shoes.’

Hyperformal _and_ condescending— she’s not impressed.

“And why not? I’ve spent plenty of time there. I’m almost a regular.” She is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a regular.

“Regular or not, you’re in no shape to camp out. Your clothes are soaked through, you’ve been clenching your jaw for the last mile and a half to stop your teeth from chattering, and if the roads are this bad now, I can only imagine how much worse they’re going to get. That cantina is out in the sticks; you could be stuck there for longer than just one night.” His voices softens. “You’re freezing, Rey. Please let me take you somewhere else.”

It’s the _please_ that does her in. He’s genuinely upset about this, something more to it than snobbery and judgement. And he’s right: even with the heat going full blast and the seat heat set to high, she’s still so fucking cold. She’s been fighting not to shiver, but he noticed anyway. It makes something tense in her chest unwind.

_Shut up,_ she tells the thing in her chest. _It’s basic courtesy._

She is summarily ignored.

“Alright,” she relents. “Any suggestions, Professor Chauffeur? Because I got nothing.”

He cracks a grin at that. “Ben will suffice,” he says. The formality is still there, but the smile is— devastating. Not the quiet thing she’s seen so many times in the shop, but something pleased and almost teasing. He’s moodier than all hell—he’s jumped from polite to offended and back again in the space of a few minutes—but damn if he doesn’t look good while he’s at it.

“A hotel?” he offers. “There are a few back toward campus.”

“I really can’t afford one.” She swallows down the rush of nausea the words give her, bitter and frustrating. He seems to sense how difficult it is to verbalize, especially given the obviously expensive car and the dive bar comment and just— the whole situation in general. Who even considers biking seven miles in freezing rain unless they’re too broke to do otherwise?

He doesn’t push. Instead, he’s quiet for a few moments, clearly mulling something over. There’s a deep furrow between his brows. She wants to smooth it away with her fingertips.

“Again, I apologize if this is too forward, but I have several spare bedrooms. You’re welcome to use one until the roads are clear enough to head back to Niima.”

If common sense lost out to the cold back in front of the bike rack, it’s got no chance now. She shivers in her still-wet sweatshirt, ignores her own better judgement, and makes up her mind.

“Yeah,” she says, and god, her teeth really are chattering. “That would be great.”

His eyes widen a bit, as if he wasn’t expecting her to agree without a fight.

“If you’re sure,” she tacks on belatedly, refusing to let her voice waver.

“Of course.”

That settles it. He checks the mirrors and accelerates slowly away from the shoulder. The hum of the engine is low and quiet. Outside the windows, the darkness is broken only by the occasional streetlight, brief flares of light that catch and shine on the icy road, the still-falling sleet, the crust of white creeping across the whole world. Everything feels distant and unreal.

It takes nearly twenty minutes of excruciatingly careful driving, but eventually they pull up to a dark house. It looks like new construction, the whole thing sleek and modern. The neighborhood around it is dark; either everyone is already in for the night or the houses are empty. Ben eases the car into the driveway and cuts the engine. They watch the sleet hit the windshield in silence, until Rey musters up the courage to ask why they’re not pulling into the garage.

“Looks like the power is out,” he says. “We’ll have to make a run for it.”

He peels off his greatcoat and tosses it to her, climbing out of the car before she has a chance to protest. Fine. She struggles into the coat—long enough that it’ll probably trip her, given the way this day has gone—and absolutely refuses to breathe in the lingering scent of his cologne.

He has the door unlocked by the time she gets there, holding it open for her. Chivalry is dead, but she scoots inside as quickly as she can, squeezing past him then stumbling to a stop once she realizes she can’t see anything beyond the dim outlines of a massive foyer.

“I’ll find some light.” The door closes with a heavy thud, and then his footsteps move off in a different direction. Down a hall? He comes back with two flashlights, one lit, and another that he hands to her. He makes no move to take back the coat, but he frowns when he sees she’s still shivering.

She’s familiar enough with the pattern now that she can interpret what the wrinkle between his brows means. She heads him off at the pass. “Do you have anything dry I can change into?”

“Yes,” he says, swallowing, “of course.” The startled relief on his face makes her laugh. He points in the direction of the hallway. “First door on the right.”

His room is horribly impersonal. The sweep of the flashlight shows empty white walls, plain dark bedding, no clutter or mess. It looks more like a magazine display than a bedroom. It should probably give her serial killer vibes, but instead it’s just— sad. The only thing that looks remotely personal is a framed photo on the nightstand, a young boy with his arms flung around a monstrously shaggy dog. They’re squished into the backseat of some beat up old car, obviously thrilled to be there, but Rey can’t shake the feeling that it isn’t a happy memory.

_Stop being nosy,_ she chides herself. She makes herself look away, tossing the coat on the bed and turning her attention to the dresser. There’s no reasonable expectation of finding something that will fit her, but she’s hoping for something that doesn’t look like it costs more than a month’s pay. Eventually she comes up with a thick flannel shirt, old enough that the plaid is starting to fade, and a pair of ratty sweats. She has no idea what either of them is doing in Ben’s wardrobe, but she shrugs into them gladly.

There’s a part of her that wants to leave her wet clothing in a heap somewhere—if only to make the room seem a little more lived in—but she dismisses that as a terrible idea. Her clothes need to be as dry as possible when the storm lets up, because there’s no way in hell she’s staying a moment longer than she has to. She’s been in his house for all of ten minutes and already she can feel herself wanting to know more. He’s too kind, too handsome, too much a mystery. He was safe to crush on because there was never any chance of anything happening. No way she’d ever have to explain anything: why she lives out by Niima, the origins of her name, the way loneliness sometimes threatens to crush her even when she’s surrounded by people who love her.

_Yeah, no, I’m definitely not staying._

She scoops up her clothes and marches back into the hall, trying not to trip as she goes. She rolled the hems up, but the sweats are still stupidly long on her. The shirt could probably pass for a dress.

A warm flare of light draws her from the hallway into a huge open plan living room. Seriously, how the hell does he afford this stuff? He’s kneeling in front of a massive fireplace, carefully stoking what looks like a real fire. He doesn’t turn when approaches. She lays her sweatshirt and jeans out to dry on a nearby sofa—black leather, super modern, probably uncomfortable—and sends a text to Rose.

_hey— not gonna make it home tonight. crashing at a friend’s place, but i’ll peace out as soon as the roads clear up. stay warm! xoxo_

The text is intentionally vague, because Rose would absolutely judge her for hopping in a car with some random dude she sees at work, let alone accepting an offer to stay at his place. Hell, she’s judging herself. But Rose is an excellent roommate and an even better friend; no doubt she’s suspicious as hell, but she tactfully ignores the issue of exactly _where_ Rey is.

_okay sunshine!!! stay safe!!!!!_

She should probably turn her phone off, conserve the battery, but instead she fiddles around with it, at a loss for what to say. Ren stands up from the fire, brushing off his hands. A muscle in his face jerks when he sees her sitting on the couch next to her clothes.

“Do you want me to move them?”

“No,” he says. “It’s fine.”

It clearly is not fine.

“Look, I don’t wanna _—_ cause a problem or whatever. Just tell me if I’m doing something wrong? I’d hate to ruin your fancy-ass furniture because you didn’t want to chastise a guest.”

“What?”

“The leather?”

“...what about it?” He looks so fucking confused. It’d be adorable if she didn’t feel so incredibly out of place.

She curls into the corner of the stupid goddamn couch, wrapping her arms around her knees. It’s an old habit, getting as small as she can. She hates herself for it. She hates Ren too, just a little bit, for bringing it to the surface. “Forget it.”

He sighs, and runs a hand across his face. He took his glasses off at some point, and she can’t decide whether it makes him look older or younger. Or just tired. Should she tell him there’s a smear of ash on his temple? She should probably tell him.

“Would you like anything to drink? I’ve got matches, and it’s a gas stove, so I can make tea. Or coffee, I suppose.”

That at least is familiar territory. “Hard pass on the coffee,” she says, voice intentionally light. “You drink it black with three shots of espresso. Whatever you have at home is probably strong enough to send me into another dimension.”

He snorts. “Tea, then?”

“Yes, please.”

They lapse into yet another silence as he pads toward the stove and puts the kettle on to boil. It’s so quiet. Outside, the sleet is slowly turning to snow. The roads are going to be a mess. God, this day just keeps getting better and better. The shriek of the kettle splits the tense quiet. He pulls a mug from the top shelf of a cabinet, and she’s only a little bit ashamed to admit that she stares at the way the sweater pulls tight across his shoulders, rides up to reveal a pale strip of skin above the waistband of his trousers.

“Honey?”

She nearly jumps out of her skin. “What?”

She flushes the instant she realizes the context. “Ah, no. No, I’m good. Thanks though.” She wants to sink through the cushions and vanish. Somehow, she manages to stay upright long enough to accept the cup, curling her hands around the steaming warmth. Her cheeks are still on fire, but Ben just retreats back into the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his own mug.

Floundering, she reaches for the first subject she can think of.

“How long do you think I’ll be stuck here?”

His expression goes blank.

“I’m not sure,” he says finally, tone equally bland. “The snow doesn’t look like it’s going to stop anytime soon, but it’s the ice that’s the real issue.”

The weather. They’re talking about the weather. She got into a car with the hot guy she’s been crushing on for basically two years, and they’re talking about the weather. How is this her life?

“I’m sorry,” she blurts out. “I’m just— a little out of sorts right now. I don’t really know what to make of all this.”

“All this?”

She gestures toward him with the mug, trying in vain to convey the whole situation; the gorgeous, painfully stark apartment, the car ride, the unexpected kindness. Two years of silent pining, and then, suddenly, this.

“I guess I’m trying to say thank you,” she says. “You’ve been way too kind to me tonight.” Her voice isn’t bitter. It _isn’t._

“Ah.” The sounds is low in his throat. “Well. As I’m sure you know, I’m renowned for my kindness.”

She laughs, and the tension eases just a fraction.

“So your students tell me.”

“Good. I’d hate to hear they’ve been spreading falsehoods.”

Okay. Okay. She does banter all the time. She can absolutely handle this.

He pushes a hand through his hair, and wow, no, she can’t handle this. The muscles in his forearm ripple smoothly. He’s still wearing that fucking sweater, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair falls in messy waves around his face as he cards through it; it looks more like a habitual gesture than anything else, something half sheepish and half nervous, but that doesn’t seem to matter. The butterflies in her stomach swirl to life, a fluttery swarm of _he’s kind_ and _you’re in his house_ and _jesus christ he’s built._ She can’t help herself; she licks her lips, goosebumps prickling across her skin as his eyes track the motion.

She stands up before she can think better of it, mug abandoned on the coffee table. He watches her approach with something burning in his gaze, all traces of humor gone like smoke. He lowers his hand from his hair, gripping the edge of the counter. Waiting for her.

“Hey,” she says when she finally reaches him. “I might be reading this all wrong, but—”

“—you’re not.” His voice is unbearably soft.

Warmth unfurls low in her belly, and she reaches up to touch the smear of ash. “You’ve got something here.”

“Do I?”

“Mmm, yep.”

The kiss sweeps through her like wildfire, chasing away the last remnants of the cold. He tastes like two years of tentative conversation, like bitter black tea and the faintest trace of sugar; it all adds up to a bad idea, but she doesn’t care. She presses against him, running her hands over the soft wool of his sweater, lingering a moment on the obscene plushness of his lips before licking into his mouth.

He responds with a fervor to match her own, hauling her into his arms in a casual display of strength that makes her shiver and clench her legs around him. A fierce, sudden ache starts to build between her hips, faster than it has in ages, and she grinds against him, shameless and brazen.

A rough word—something appreciative, she hopes—spills from his mouth, and then he’s breathing raggedly against her neck, sucking a wet bloom beneath the hinge of her jaw. He holds her like he thinks she’ll disappear if he lets go.

She’s in no danger of disappearing, but this has been building since the moment he saw her in the snow; if she doesn’t get to touch him soon, the want is going to burn her to cinders.

“Let me, let me— fuck, Ben, let me blow you.” She punctuates the sentence by snaking a hand down his chest, trying to get at the waistband of his trousers. He gasps something unintelligible into her neck, as if even the idea is enough to undo him. “Down,” she orders, and he lowers her to the floor, a long, slow slide that lets her feel exactly how wound up he is. Fuck, _fuck,_ that was a dirty move and she is absolutely going to make him pay for it.

She sinks to her knees right there on the hardwood. He’s still braced against the kitchen counter, his whole body strung taut with tension. She looks up at him and smiles. His gaze turns scorching but he makes no move to touch her.

“Your show,” he rasps, challenge and surrender both in one neat phrase.

Rey unbuttons his trousers with steady hands. She makes herself take her time, pulling the fabric away with deliberate motions. It’s as torturous for her as it is for him; by the time she’s stripped him to the skin, she’s wet and aching, struggling not to give in and put a hand between her legs to ease the emptiness. God, he’s— proportional. That’s the first word that comes to mind. His cock is long and thick, flushed a deep red. If she doesn’t get her mouth on him in the next three seconds, she’s going to _die._

A lone shred of rational thought prods at her. “Please tell me you’re clean,” she says, voice turned to smoke.

“Shit,” he bites out. “Yeah, I’m clean.”

She doesn’t bother with a response.

He’s deliciously heavy in her hand. She traces across the thick ridge of a vein, lets her other hand drift up to skim his thigh. He shivers at every point of contact. She leans in, teases herself just a little bit, dragging her lips across the head of his cock, tongue darting out to taste him. He swears, bringing a hand up to tangle in her hair. She moans and takes him into her mouth. She hasn’t done this in ages, but Ben seems easy enough to please. His grip tightens in her hair as she swirls her tongue and he’s halfway through a garbled apology before he registers that she’s moaning again _,_ greedy and unashamed.

_“Christ,_ Rey, your mouth—”

His grip tightens further, and god, the bright sizzling burn of it goes straight to her core. Blow jobs are fine, usually. She enjoys giving them, enjoys being the one in control, but with Ben, everything is different. Her whole body feels electric, like someone swapped her veins for filaments; he tugs at her hair and it hits her like a current. She doesn’t know who’s in control here, and for once, that doesn’t scare her. He strikes the perfect balance between roughness and surrender, and she gives herself permission to get lost.

She takes him as deep as she can, closing her eyes and savoring the weight, the warm salt taste of him, how she has to concentrate to breathe. Her jaw starts to ache. She doesn’t care. She goes slowly—she has to—but it’s good, it’s so good: the thick slide of his cock across her tongue, the way he starts to shake, the sound of his voice on the litany of her name.

Rey squeezes her thighs together, desperate for friction but willing to ignore the needy clutch of her cunt. In this moment, the ache doesn’t matter; she wants to unravel him.

She glances up at him on the next stroke and the sight pulls a groan from her. The hand not tangled in her hair is flung out along the edge of the counter, holding on to it for dear life. His knuckles are white, the tendons in his arm straining as he tries to hold himself back. He readjusts his grip as she watches, fingers flexing. For a moment all she can think about is how _good_ they would feel, blunt and thick, the perfect length to curl inside her and drag against every nerve. She can’t help it; she lets go of his thigh to struggle with her borrowed sweats, slipping her hand between her legs. Two fingers glide in, no stretch at all. Everything is slick and hot; the easy slide of her fingers, his cock in her mouth—

Wriggling her hips, she adds a third finger and grinds against her palm, hungry now, ready to come. The movement must catch his eye, because all of sudden his hips are jerking helplessly, hand tightening in her hair to the point of pain. It rolls through her in a bright sharp blur, and she hums deep in her throat, so close, so fucking close, she wants to come, she wants to feel him fall to pieces on her tongue—

“Fuck,” he pants out, “fuck, you have to stop or I’m going to lose it.” She’s teetering on the edge of orgasm, but he sounds upset. She pulls her mouth off of him with a wet, obscene noise. He gasps, chest heaving as she meets his gaze.

“I don’t care.” Her hips are still moving, tight circles that press her clit against the heel of her hand. She can feel the fire of her orgasm waiting, ready to bloom, but even with three fingers she still feels almost unbearably empty. It was better with his cock in her mouth, the full, heavy pressure and the promise of his orgasm almost enough to assuage the ache. She reaches for him, but his hands move to cup her face, guiding her away from where she wants to be.

“I care.”

“But—”

“No,” he says, final, and the change in his voice sends a shiver of desire coursing through her. He’s disheveled, hair messy, face red, pants stripped haphazardly to his knees, that goddamn sweater rucked up against his stomach, but his voice, _oh_ , his voice says he’s in control.

“Alright,” she concedes, easing herself up off her knees. His eyes are dark and hot. She presses close, breathes out against his lips. “Tell me how you want me.”

His gaze burns. “Naked,” he says, still with that calm, deep voice. “On your stomach, in front of the fire.”

_Oh god,_ she thinks, her mind a haze of heat. He sounds entirely collected, like he wasn’t just unravelling in her mouth, a moment away from spilling down her throat. He sounds like he’s given an order, like he expects to be obeyed. This kind of thing has never done it for her in the past, but fuck if it isn’t doing it for her right now. She wants to needle him, wants to see what he’ll do if she pushes back. She wants to hear that voice again.

Rey turns, moving toward the fireplace with slow steps. Her joints feel liquid. She knows without looking that he’s watching her. Flames lick up against the grate, casting wild shadows across the room. The hardwood is warm beneath her feet. She makes no move to strip.

The whisper of cloth tells her he’s undressing behind her. She waits. Footsteps. He comes to a stop behind her, a huge, warm presence that makes her ache to turn around. She stays where she is.

“Rey.”

Her name in that _voice_ ; she throbs, clenching around nothing, and turns. He quirks a brow at her. “I thought I said naked.”

“Mmm,” she says, slick warmth pooling between her thighs. She’s dripping wet. “You did.”

“And yet here you are, still clothed.”

The words are carefully neutral, but they hang in the air all the same, an unspoken command. She smiles at him, doe-eyed, pretending she doesn’t understand.

“So undress me.”

“Ah,” he says, half a smile stealing like a ghost across his mouth. “I think I will.”

Ben’s hands are huge and deft. He starts undoing the buttons of the old plaid shirt with deliberate slowness, the fabric rasping across her skin, chafing against her nipples. He sucks in a breath when he notices she’s not wearing a bra, but doesn’t speed up. It’s torturous, the same as it was when she undressed him. _Only fair,_ she thinks distantly. It’s— fine. She can handle this.

And she does handle it, button by button, until he starts speaking again. His voice twines around her, heavy as a physical touch.

“You have no idea what it does to me, do you? Seeing you in my clothes.” He skims a hand inside the shirt, cups her breast, squeezing. She whines, a high, keening sound she didn’t know she could make. “Watching you move through my house—through my _life_ —like you belong here.” He peels the shirt away, tosses it somewhere unimportant. The only thing that matters is the way his hands are moving over her body, down from her breasts to the span of her hips, large enough to make whipcord lean feel delicate, fragile as spun glass. He keeps going, pressing against her core. He swears, low and fierce, when his hand comes away damp.

“Fuck, maybe you do know,” he says. “Why else would be so wet for me, hmm?”

She’s so empty it hurts. “Please,” she says, “please, I need—”

“I know,” he soothes, steadying her as she tries to scramble out of the sweats. She waits, naked and trembling, as he shoves their clothes out of the way, pulls a throw off the back of a chair, spreading it out in front of the fire. She has no patience for it.

“I don’t care—”

“I do.” The same argument they had before, but she doesn’t want to lose this one.

“Please,” she says again, hand back between her thighs, three fingers, still aching. “It’s not _enough,_ Ben, please, I don’t give a shit about the floor—”

He pulls her close, guiding her down onto the blanket with a gentleness that both thrills and infuriates her.

“Rey.” Her name again, and she can’t help but snap to attention when she hears it. “Let me take care of you.” There’s more iron in this command than any of the others, but it’s tempered by the way he strokes her sides, traces the knobs of her spine, coaxing her onto her stomach. She goes, bracing herself on her forearms, trying not to hitch her hips as he settles himself atop her. He’s heavy and broad, the weight of him solid, reassuring. He’ll take care of her, he said he would, but he’s still—

He sheathes himself to the hilt in one smooth thrust. He doesn’t wait for her to adjust, and god, _god,_ she doesn’t want him to. She wants exactly what he’s doing, taking her apart with slow, measured strokes, stretching her until she feels like she’s going to break, the ache nothing but a memory.

“Ben,” she gasps out, “Ben, it’s so good,” and she can feel the shudder that ripples through him, the way it makes his hips stutter, cock sliding even deeper, long and thick inside her. Oh, _oh,_ that’s even better. She keens again, writhing, desperate for another thrust like that. Instead of giving it to her he slows, then stops moving all together. She tries to grind back against him, but all his weight is on her, solid and immovable, nearly enough to make her cry.

He shifts, then careful fingers brush her hair off her neck. His breath is ragged against her skin when he speaks, voice rumbling up through his chest, all gravel, all heat. “Is that what you need, honey? You need me to stop pretending I can control this?” He lets his hips surge against her, no finesse at all, and she makes a sound like a sob. “It is, isn’t it? You need me to— fuck—” he’s shaking again, pounding into her, “—you need me to admit how thoroughly you devastate me.”

The fire hisses and crackles, flames dancing, sending shadows spinning across her vision. The whole world is fire: her blood, her body, Ben’s skin against hers. The words tumbling out of him, dark, burning, searing into the loneliness that lives in her bones until it turns to ash. She’s so close. “Ben,” she chants out, the only sound she knows how to make, and his thrusts turn erratic. A surge of heat blooms deep inside her, and he answers his name with her own, shaking and spent.

She’s not disappointed; she’s too far gone for that. “Ben,” she says again, helpless, asking for his fingers, his mouth, anything to bring her over the edge. He’s barely softened at all, and it takes every shred of willpower she has left to stay still, to wait for him to pull out. Her heart beats against her ribs, skittish and hungry, and she can feel a whine building in her throat. Needy and impatient, frantic with the need to move, she tries to ground herself, clutching at the blanket, biting at her lip. She cries out in shock when his hands go to her hips, hauling her back against him.

He hisses between his teeth, clearly sensitive, but he doesn’t seem to care. He sets a rough pace, almost punishing, and then—

“You wreck me, sweetheart.” He sounds almost strangled, overwhelmed. It has to be painful for him, overstimulated and chasing her orgasm anyway, but she can’t stop. She clenches around him, crying out. “That’s right,” he groans, sliding a hand between her hips and the floor, grinding the heel of his palm against her clit, “take what you need.”

No words left, just a quiet, gasping sob. His voice in her ear, _so good, sweetheart, you’re so good. Go ahead. Come for me, Rey._

She does.

Dimly, she’s aware of him shuddering to a stop, breathing almost as hard as she is. He strokes her back, slow and gentle, easing her back into her body. She doesn’t know how long it takes; he’s gone soft inside her by the time she feels like a person again.

“Okay,” she rasps. “I’m good.”

Ben presses a chaste kiss to her nape. “Alright.” They both shiver when he pulls out, sticky and sore, but neither of them makes a move to get up. Instead, he shifts onto his back, arm stretched out in wordless invitation. She takes it, curling against the warmth of his chest, head pillowed on his shoulder. The silence that falls between them is new. Different. No fraught tension, no awkwardness hanging heavy in the air. Just silence, warm and comfortable. Familiar, even though there’s no reason it should be.

The fire gutters down as they breathe together. She doesn’t want to move, but eventually the mess between her thighs is too uncomfortable to ignore. She sits up, wincing as her muscles protest. Ten to one she’ll have bruises on her hips by morning; she doesn’t mind nearly as much as she should.

He joins her, eyes dark, still silent. She means to ask him where she can clean up, but the words get lost. What comes out of her mouth is something else entirely.

“Why was this so good?”

She expects him to crack a smile, make a joke. Be offended, maybe? Something different from the quiet response he offers up, solemn and serious.

“I don’t know.”

“Can we—” she swallows, trying to smooth out the nervousness in her voice. “I need to clean up, but after— can we talk?”

He nods, thank fuck, and that’s the limit of her bravery, at least for the next few minutes. She escapes into the hallway—freezing cold after the heat of the living room—before she realizes she has no idea where the bathroom is. She finds it eventually, moving carefully through the darkness. She makes a beeline for Ben as soon as she’s back. He’s sitting exactly where she left him, a corner of the blanket draped over his lap in an attempt at modesty. Either that, or he’s cold too. She folds herself into his arms and lets him coax warmth back into her skin. When she finally stops shaking, he reaches out a long arm and snags his sweater from the floor. She takes it gratefully, snuggling into the soft white wool. It smells like his cologne, the same as his greatcoat did. This time, she doesn’t try to pretend she isn’t breathing it in.

“You know,” she says, because it’s as good a place to start as any, “before today I’d never seen you in anything but a suit.”

“I didn’t realize you were keeping track.”

She blushes, just a little bit. “I don’t know. There’s something about you. Always has been. I can’t help it— I’ve paid attention to you since the day you first came in and ordered that ridiculous drink.”

He grins, rueful. “In my defense, I’d been awake for thirty-six hours _and_ I was about to go lecture an army of bored freshman.”

“Okay, see, ordering it then makes sense. But that’s the only thing you’ve ever ordered.”

It’s his turn to flush. “When I came back the next day, you remembered me. You remembered what I’d ordered, and you just— started making it. It was kind. I didn’t want to correct you.”

“Oh my god?”

“I know—”

“You’ve been drinking that insane thing for _two years_ because I was flustered? A red eye with three shots in it, twice a week for— two years. All because I was trying to stay cool about the incredibly attractive guy who came back in when I was on shift.”

He laughs, loud and deep, and _shit,_ she loves the sound of it.  

“I didn’t want to disappoint the gorgeous barista who always had my drink ready.” He sobers, looking at her with a terrible sort of earnestness in his eyes. “I don’t know,” he says. “You smiled at me, that first day, and it was like the sun coming out.”

He flushes again, and she can’t resist. She pushes back his hair; his ears are bright red.

“I know that is...unbearably clichéd, but it’s true.”

“Admit it,” she says, “you just couldn’t pass up the pun.”

“No, no, I swear!”

He’s laughing again, and this is another thing she can’t help, the way she has to lean in and kiss him, how the feel of his mouth eclipses everything else, the world falling away as they melt into each other. They trade kisses for a long time, long enough that the fire dies out and Ben has to grope around for a flashlight so he can prod it back to life. They pick themselves up off the floor after that. He pulls on the sweats she borrowed; they leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. Somehow, she ignores the flare of arousal and curls up next to him on the couch.

“So,” she says. “We should talk.”

“We should,” he agrees.

“This is a lot,” she tells him, words awkward and stilted. “And I’m not— I’m not very good at this. Relationships. Dating. Any of it.”

He pins her with a look. Two hours ago, she would have said it was judgmental. Now, she knows that’s not it at all. He’s trying to puzzle out what she means, to make her words fit with what he knows of her.

“Is that what you want? A relationship?”

It’s a straightforward question, but not a simple one. She lets her gaze drift to the window, trying to sort through how she feels. Their chemistry is ridiculous—astronomical, even—but what does she really know about him? His family, his names, how he can afford a luxury car and an even pricier house— it’s all a mystery.

“I don’t know,” she says finally. Soft, almost a confession. “But I want something.”

His fingers thread through hers. She looks away from darkness outside the windows and turns to meet his gaze. That earnestness again, joined by a tentative sort of hope. _Vulnerable,_ she thinks, and the thing in her chest is back, a tenseness dissolving away, telling her she can trust him.

“I know what I want,” he says. “I’d like the chance to get to know you. Take you out for coffee that isn’t terrible, maybe. See what we can accomplish with an actual bed.”

His thumb strokes over the back of her hand, gentle and maddening. His hands are a match for the rest of him. They fit with hers as if the two of them were made for each other.

“Okay,” she says.

Outside, the snow is still falling. She can see the flakes drifting down, soft against the silent black beyond the windows. The blinds are half drawn. She and Ben are alone in the stillness of a winter night, warm beside the fire: two figures in a snow globe.

Eventually, the power will come back on. The snow will stop falling and the ice will melt, and this strange bubble of peace will disappear like it never existed. They’ll have to figure out if this is real. If they want to deal with secrets and trauma and the task of finding balance between two different hearts.

She squeezes his hand, thinking of quiet care and startled laughter. She wants this.

“It’s a date.”

**Author's Note:**

> for maddy :/ because she is a Joy and a Delight :/
> 
> special shoutout to tia, mina, and everyone else who listened to me babble my way through this nonsense and helped convince me it wasn't terrible. you ladies are all so wonderful ♥ 
> 
> extra special shoutout to jacy for the lightning fast beta! you're the best, bb! 
> 
> title from "colder weather" by the zac brown band; songs mentioned in the text are "blood bank" by bon iver and "i will wait" by mumford & sons
> 
> this mess is [rebloggable](http://www.redbelles.tumblr.com/post/178091389678/stuck-in-colder-weather) on tumblr if that's your jam. thanks for reading!


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